


Full Circle

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: ...I mean shit...there's no angst in this at all what the hell?, ...of a sort, Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, Canon Disabled Character, Crying, Dinner, Fade to Black, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Sex, ergo -, ie. Ozzie's eye - nothing graphic though, ie.Ozzie's leg and eye, my ace!Ozzie is not sex repulsed however, the more I write the more ace Ozzie becomes I don't make the rules, this is... ridiculously soft for me now I think about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 13:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18661480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: Ed surprises Oswald with dinner post reunification.





	Full Circle

The walk from the hospital isn't difficult. The route is flat and straightforward and the novelty of reunification has restored enough law and order to keep the streets clear, for the moment.

But Oswald's weak leg and injured eye make the journey a torture regardless and his unexpected, unwanted and altogether undesirable solitude only intensifies the struggle.

So when he finally crosses the threshold of his dusty, still only partially restored family home and has to stomp about even further, checking various ransacked rooms, before finding Edward Nygma camped out in the Dining Room his mood is a dark cloud the cheerful flames of the three pronged candelabra at the centre of the table has no hope of penetrating.

"What is this?" Oswald snaps, gesturing at the feast laid out across the table surface.

"Dinner," Edward answers from his chair at the far end, the fire roaring in the newly cleaned hearth beyond the partition behind him highlighting the chequered green of his latest jacket and metallic shine of his tie. He sounds a little breathless, the gloved fingers of one hand twisting the stem of an empty glass. One of Elijah's best crystal, Oswald notes, gladdened for a moment to know at least some of the set has survived. "Although it's a little cold. You're later than I expected."

"Later than -" Oswald starts to repeat before his outrage prevents him from completing the sentence. "Ed, I have just come from a long and arduous visit to the hospital. From my final appointment there. The one the doctors set over a month ago. To have my dressings removed."

He jabs a hand towards his right eye for emphasis, no longer obscured by the ugly patch he’d been forced to wear these last few weeks. Although he’s yet to remove the fresh pair of red tinted glasses he’d slipped on during his journey back when the exposure to daylight had proven too painful to endure.

No doubt the shade amplifies the still tender, enflamed state of his skin and it most certainly doesn’t match the bold purple of his tie and gloves – an unacceptable fashion faux par, but there was little he could do about it.

Now he’s almost grateful for how ghastly his lenses must make the injury – perhaps it will inspire suitable contrition in his supposed brother in arms.

No such luck.

"Yes," Ed nods, removing his hand from the glass and waving, theatrically, at the dishes in front of him. "Hence a celebratory dinner."

Ed flashes a smile and blinks up at Oswald, arm still outstretched, and Oswald notices the empty place set at Ed's side for the first time. The plates are his father's second best china and the cutlery from a service Oswald doesn't recognise, so it would seem not all of his family things escaped the city's recent troubles intact.

From his cheery expression it seems Ed expects a reward for his culinary efforts, but Oswald will be damned if he'll let the other man's failings slide so easily.

No matter how beautifully he's arranged the table.

No matter the charming single white lily artfully positioned in a thin vase next to the candles.

And no matter how delicious and inviting the food smells. Or the way his empty stomach growls at the sight.

"You were supposed to be there," Oswald presses. He tries to stay firm, but the still fresh memory of the experience dampens his rage and brings a tremble to his voice he can't quell. The anxious waiting; the constant fear of pain as Lee Thompkins – or is it Mrs Gordon now? how traditional a marriage the two star-crossed lovers have remains to be seen – pulled the fabric loose bit by agonising bit; the subsequent soreness; the disappointing blur of vision and utter abandonment that followed as Lee was forced away to tend to other patients. "You promised," he adds, too miserable to care if he sounds more petulant than deprecating.

There's no obvious sign of shame in Ed's response. Just a dip in his smile and visible swallow that could mean anything. Or nothing.

"I know," Ed answers, gaze unwavering. "And if I could have been there I would have, I swear." He flattens both palms either side of his empty plate to punctuate this statement. "But it turns out your cellar is empty. Looters I imagine. And with supplies throughout the city still limited it took me forever to find a decent Bordeaux."

His hand grasps the neck of a dark green bottle to his right, peeling yellow label faded so badly even Oswald's good eye can't make out the words.

If he hadn't just exhausted himself trekking across the city Oswald might have screamed and stamped his fury. As it is, he's too tired to do more than close his eyes and let the wave wash over him.

It's not very satisfying. Especially as the press of his eyelid makes his injured eye sting.

With a sharp intake of breath he opens his eyes again and hobbles forward to the back of the empty chair.

"Let me get this straight," he hisses, gripping the ornate wooden edge for support. "You broke your promise and left me to suffer at that cramped, inadequate excuse for a hospital _alone_ and _in pain_." He squeezes the polished wood tighter, leather gloves squeaking. "To find a _bottle of wine_?"

"It was no simple task, Oswald," Ed insists. "I literally had to kill a man for this bottle. And I knew you would be in safe hands with Lee. She is an excellent doctor."

"That is not the point!" Oswald yells, the praise of Ed’s former beau igniting something hot and sharp inside him strong enough to break through his fatigue. "You gave me your word, Ed! How is this partnership supposed to survive if I can't even trust you with something like this?"

"Oh don't be melodramatic," Ed snaps back. A casual, uncaring dismissal that makes Oswald burn twice as hot. "I'm sorry I missed your appointment but as I've explained, there were extenuating circumstances beyond my control."

Oswald is literally shaking with anger at this point and for a second or two he can only splutter, loud and incoherent.

"Beyond your control?!" Ed doesn't so much as flinch at the rise in tempo so Oswald screams louder, nearly sending his own empty glass toppling as he jabs a finger in Ed's direction. "You're the one who decided to go searching for the damn wine!"

"Well we couldn't have dinner without it!" Although he matches Oswald for volume, physically Ed couldn't be a greater contrast – sitting upright, back straight, body still. Ed has always radiated a calmness in his fury that Oswald finds equal parts fearful and exasperating and now is no exception. "Everything would have been fine if your wine cellar had been properly stocked! You think I _wanted_ to spend my afternoon traipsing through war torn streets and unsanitary alleyways looking for a suitable vintage? There are plenty of other ways I could have made use of my time, but no, I had to do this. I -" For the first time since Oswald walked in Ed hesitates, a flicker of something passing behind his lenses. Something anxious. Something soft. "I had to -" Another split second pause, no more than a breath. "Make this _right_."

Oswald opens his mouth to keep yelling, still caught in a furious whirlpool of hurt and anger and pain. He’d never asked for dinner anyway so what did it matter if it was 'right' or not?

But just as the next barrage of insults are about to leave him Oswald tilts his head and a clearer picture of Ed comes into focus, his good eye picking out a tightness about Ed’s lips and a yearning in his eyes that drags Oswald free of his rage. Glancing down he notices Ed’s hands have slipped back to grip the edge of the table, leather at his knuckles pulled as taut as Oswald’s own.

“I had to,” Ed repeats, voice a little strained now. It’s not apology, exactly. More like resignation. As though he really did have no choice in the matter.

Oswald bites back a sigh. He’s known the other man long enough to recognise the throes of compulsion at work in him.

Which means either the dinner isn’t random, or this isn’t about the dinner at all.

Could it be guilt that’s prompted this obsession with a homecoming meal?

Despite Oswald’s insistence his wound wasn’t Ed’s fault Ed _is_ still guilty about the way Oswald gained it protecting him. Oswald sees it in the constant flick of Ed’s eyes to that part of his face and the way he’ll stop what he’s doing at once if Oswald shows the slightest discomfort as a result of the injury, either to rush forward to offer aid or at least wince in sympathy.

Had he fabricated this excuse to miss Oswald’s appointment as a way of avoiding the sordid, physical truth of Oswald’s latest deformity? Satisfying his need to make amends for it by convincing himself a meal would offer better comfort?

No. However guilty he feels, Ed wouldn’t shy away from a little blood and broken skin. He’d worked in forensics for heaven’s sake, he’s not squeamish. Although – there had been that odd moment just after the battle, when the sight of Oswald seemed to leave him shaken. But he’d soon overcome it, enough to apply that initial bandage himself – delicate fingers slow and careful as they fixed the fabric in place.

Avoidance can’t be the reason he’d immersed himself in dinner plans like this.

So what else is there?

It can’t truly be about celebrating Oswald’s recovery? For a genius Ed has a definite lack of common sense sometimes, but even he was smart enough to know that breaking a promise to aid in said recovery would not invoke a joyful, celebratory mood.

 Damn the man and his insistence on living up to his name.

Riddle – what is the purpose of an elaborate, candlelit evening meal?

Perhaps it’s being back in the Manor, with the warm fire burning in the grate beside them and the sofa – still miraculously intact – where Oswald first discovered his feelings for the man around the corner, but he can only think of one other reason a meal such as this might serve.

The same reason he’d once arranged one. In this very room. At this very table.

Where he’d sat at the very chair Ed occupies now.

In fact – Oswald straightens up, head tipping sideways to better assess the table.

Stuffed tomatoes. Garlic mushrooms. Prawn cocktail. Apricots. A fruit pie.

These are all _the exact same_ dishes he’d prepared for them that long ago night when he planned to confess his love.

That evening and the long, excruciating hours that followed had been a highly significant, if ultimately tragic, time for Oswald, so every detail was etched into him like a brand, impossible to forget. Despite how badly he’d tried to later.

Which is how he knows not only that the dishes match, but also their placement. The only difference is the central dish. Oswald had Ogla prepare a roast boar, but presumably the city’s limited supplies had stymied Ed there. He’s placed a small roasted ham garnished with sliced apple at the centre instead. Close enough to Oswald’s original choice for him to finally see what’s happening here.

Ed is trying to recreate that evening.

The knowledge comes with a sense of trepidation. The last time Ed tried to recreate a significant event between them was when Oswald convinced him to return to Gotham pier. Back then getting the re-enactment ‘right’ had meant shooting Oswald again. Disappointing, if not surprising, proof that Ed hadn’t, or couldn’t, let go of his need for revenge.

But this return is already far less rigid. The candles and the lily – those are new.

As is the wine.

That can’t be random. Ed doesn’t _do_ random, not if he can help it.

So what do these differences mean?

He was supposed to bring them wine, the first time.

Oswald has often wondered how different things might have been between them if Ed had made it back with the drink that night like he promised, instead of being… distracted.

Is that why the wine tonight was so important?

Because unlike that second time at the pier, this isn’t repetition?

It must be. Nothing else makes sense.

Which means Ed isn’t trying to restore the past, he’s trying to _change_ it. Hoping to escape its grip by repurposing this meal into something new.

Why this moment and why now Oswald can’t fathom.

But if Ed really is trying to revisit that long ago night in order to give it a different outcome, what Oswald _can_ imagine, with a wild, sickening flutter of his heart, is a wonderful, terrifying, desperately craved but long since abandoned idea of what that outcome might be.

He turns his gaze back to where Ed is waiting. Silent and unreadable.

He shouldn’t hope. He shouldn’t.

But he does.

“I see,” Oswald nods, much calmer than he feels.

All the tension bleeds out of Ed at once.

“Good,” he nods back. Then nods again to himself and takes a breath. “So.” He waves at the empty chair. “Are you going to sit down?” 

Oswald pauses to take a breath himself, before offering a nervous smile. He shrugs out of his black coat, drapes it over the back of the chair and settles onto the seat.

Meanwhile, Ed busies himself uncorking the wine and pouring a generous amount for both of them. When he’s done he lifts his glass and smiles. Warm and wide.

“To new beginnings,” he toasts.

Oswald reaches, slowly, for his own glass and as he does old, long practiced words circle through his mind.

_A man comes to a crossroads in his life and he has to make a choice. Does he choose safety and cowardice? Or does he opt for courage and risk everything?_

“To new beginnings,” he repeats. Then adds, before Ed can take a sip – “And the courage to see them through.”

Ed stills a moment, thrown by the addendum. But he recovers quickly and dips his head in acknowledgement, smiling again as he brings the glass to his lips.

 

* * *

 

The food is incredible – Ed always was a marvellous cook – and the wine is silky and strong. Oswald finds himself relaxed and laughing before he knows it, sharing anecdotes of his time as arms dealer at City Hall – ones Ed doesn’t know about yet, and some that he does but seems happy to hear of again. Ed is an attentive audience, keeping the conversation flowing with eager questions and occasionally taking over with tales of his own – amusing snippets of his life in the Narrows and some of the more memorable contestants he’d had on the illegal game show he’d set up there. He doesn’t mention Lee or anything of his struggle after Strange let him loose with the control chip that maniac Nyssa Al Ghul and her minion ‘Bane’ used to manipulate him and Oswald doesn’t ask. Over the last few weeks they’ve discussed such things, and many others, in fits and starts while refurbishing the manor and no doubt will continue to do so, because there is still much air to clear. But not tonight. Tonight is about easier, happier things. Like the different, inventive ways they’ve found to kill someone or which weapons they consider most fashionable or their shared disdain for the dullards populating the rest of the city.

At some point, once the food has been picked clean, they take the remainder of the wine and move to the sofa to be closer to the fire, Ed twisted round at Oswald’s side, one long arm stretched out across the cushions while the other makes animated gestures as he talks.

The word ‘date’ hovers, unspoken, in every look and smile and occasional touch they share, but while Oswald’s heart is painfully insistent that must be what this is he doesn’t dare let himself consciously entertain the thought. Not yet.

Although the heady buzz from the wine and the light brush of Ed’s fingers at his back is making it very, very difficult to stay rational.

He takes the opportunity afforded by a lull in conversation to pull away from the all too tempting warmth of Ed’s arm and reach for his almost empty glass.

“Hey.”

Ed touches a hand to his wrist and the press of skin on skin – they’d both abandoned their gloves on the dining table – makes Oswald’s heart jolt then start to race. He has to remind himself to breathe when he looks up.

“That one’s mine,” Ed laughs, nodding at the coffee table.

Oswald turns back in a daze and realises he was indeed reaching for Ed’s glass, his own sparkling a little further back.

“Oh.” He draws his hand away and gives a breathless, slightly too long flurry of laughter. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head and adds – “It’s these glasses.” He indicates the red lenses with an awkward flick of his left hand. It’s an unnecessary excuse, but his beating heart has made him restless and anxious to keep talking. “It’s too dark for them in here. I don’t know why I’m still wearing them.”

“I assumed for comfort,” Ed responds, addressing the comment with the same cool focus he’s given everything Oswald’s told him tonight. He leans back as he speaks which allows Oswald some much needed breathing space.

“In the sun, yes,” Oswald answers, grateful for the way Ed has turned his nervous prattle into something half-way sensible. “But the light is dim enough now. I should take them off.”

He sits up and makes to do so, but Ed halts him with a gesture.

“May I?” he asks, eyes finding Oswald’s through the haze of red and fixing there, hands poised either side of Oswald’s face.

The breath Oswald had just managed to catch escapes him again and he can only nod, struck dumb by a thrill of anticipation that only grows as Ed pinches the corners of his glasses and draws them away, gentle and slow. Once removed, Ed folds and tucks the lenses in his own jacket pocket without once taking his eyes from Oswald’s exposed ones.

Oswald tries to hold the gaze but the shift from rose-tinted into natural colour is a shock, to his weak eye especially, so he can’t help but blink and squint and wince through the change. He’s just trying to prise his damaged eye all the way open when a feather light press of fingertips below it makes him jump.

Ed stills his hand immediately, although he doesn’t move away.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

The continuing intimacy of Ed’s touch makes Oswald slow to reply.

“Not now,” he manages eventually.

“Good,” Ed nods, bending forward to examine the wound in more detail, fingers pressing the tender skin in a soft circle. “It’s healed well,” he notes, finally drawing back.

Because of the proximity Oswald is able to catch the quick sigh Ed gives as he sits. Approval maybe. Or relief.

It’s such a small thing, but it lifts a weight that has been growing on Oswald’s shoulders since he left the hospital. Fighting the label of ‘freak’ has been bad enough with a mangled leg and awkward limp and distinctive nose and Oswald feared adding a scarred eye to the mix as well would create an even larger hurdle for him to overcome when it came to earning the respect of his peers. To see Ed genuinely heartened by his recovery makes Oswald think the sight can’t be as gruesome as he’s been imagining.

This doesn’t help with the practical disadvantages he’s been left with however.

He doesn’t mean to spoil the moment, but after bottling up his disappointment all evening he can’t help letting some of it spill out.

“Outwardly perhaps,” he responds. “But my vision is…” He waves his right hand in front the eye to check nothing’s changed since the removal of his glasses and is met with the same indistinct splodges of shape and colour as before. “Just a blur.” The sigh he gives as he lowers his hand is the opposite of Ed’s, but he regrets it as he looks up again and catches with his left side the deep, heartfelt frown clouding Ed’s face. “But still,” Oswald adds, forcing a grin. “A small price to pay.”

And it is.

One he’d gladly pay again to keep Ed safe and in his life.

He’d sacrifice both eyes if necessary. A hand. A leg.

Anything.

Ed touches a hand to his shoulder.

“Stay here.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Oswald cold and alone on the sofa while he hurries to the fireplace.

Ed fiddles about on top of the mantelpiece with something Oswald fails to turn his working eye on fast enough to see before turning and sliding back across the cushions, one leg tucked beneath him, hands reaching out to grasp one of Oswald’s and press something small and square into his palm.

“This is for you,” Ed tells him, cupping Oswald’s hand and the object in both of his own a beat longer than necessary before letting go. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips as he sits back. A nervous tick that Oswald registers with no little curiosity, wrinkles tightening across his brow.

When he looks down he finds himself holding a small, green velvet box.  

Too small for cufflinks or a broach.

But just right for a ring, his treacherous heart whispers.

He flicks back to Ed, but the other man’s thin, enigmatic smile offers no answers.

“Open it,” Ed says.

After a quick swallow to try and tame the sudden pounding in his chest Oswald lifts the box closer pops back the lid.

There’s a flash a gold and glass.

It’s not a ring.

“I suspected the damage might cause some short-sightedness,” Ed explains. “I thought this might help. I had to estimate the prescription so it may need some adjustment, but it should work as a temporary fix at least.”

Carefully, so as not to smudge the lens, Oswald lifts the monocle from the box and holds it up. The frame is plain silver with prongs to hold it in place. No chain. Simple and elegant.

It’s also familiar and Oswald smiles when he realises why.

“My father had one just like it,” he says, thinking back to the sparkle in Elijah’s eyes as he’d tailored Oswald a suit only a few doors down, the brief but perfect joy the two of them had found in each other.

_I weep for today’s casual youth._

“No,” Ed replies, continuing before Oswald can complete the instinctive downward curve of his lips. “Your father had this one.”

Oswald’s aborted frown melts away, lips parting instead, eyes growing wide.

“I found it in one of the drawers upstairs when we were cleaning the other week,” Ed goes on. “The lens was cracked and the chain was rusted, but the frame was perfectly serviceable.” His smile flattens, though his eyes grow soft. “Felt like fate.”

Fate. Oswald senses something _more_ behind the phrase.

Invoking ‘fate’ was how he’d convinced Ed to work with him on the plan to leave Gotham. For all his talk of wanting to prove himself and be his own man it’s surprising how often Ed is willing to submit to abstract concepts of higher power – be it fate or his twisted, compulsive sense of logic. Or love.

Perhaps he means simply that fate had provided Oswald with a family heirloom that recent circumstance had also made practical.

Or perhaps Ed saw in the monocle a fated path for _himself_. A way to make amends for past disrespect of Elijah’s memory by honouring the man with this new memento.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, Ed means it was fate _for both of them_. Perhaps Oswald’s words that night in the library had penetrated deeper than either of them realised and Ed, much like Oswald himself truth be told, has come to consider their fate, their lives, their future, as inexorably entwined. Perhaps finding an object, with a personal connection to Oswald no less, that offered a way of correcting the damage Oswald had suffered for his sake had seemed, in Ed’s eyes, symbolic of the inevitability of their bond. Another example of that mythical 'second chance' he thought he'd found in the uncanny, inconvenient resemblance that librarian who'd so turned his head had borne to his first love.

“Help me try it on?” Oswald asks. A test. To see what further intimacy Ed is willing to engage in.

“Of course.”

Ed doesn’t hesitate. He takes the offered lens at once and shuffles closer, cupping Oswald’s chin while he slots it in position.

“How is it?” Ed asks, suddenly tense, voice quiet and thin. “Does it help?”

For a second the world is blurred beyond recognition. Then Oswald blinks and everything comes back into focus, on both sides. He can see the dark lines across Ed’s brow, the slight ring in his hair where he’s been wearing his hat and the room beyond. Oh! He’d grown so used to the eye patch and the haze he’d been left in today was simply another variation of that inconvenience – it’s only in seeing clearly again Oswald understands how just much his vision has been compromised.

“Yes!” he cries, the warmth of Ed’s palm all but forgotten as he looks about him in wonder. He can see, really see, the cut of the crystal on the wine glasses – both of them equally visible now. And the polish of the table. Even the sight of the cobwebs across the ceiling makes him laugh in delight. “It’s perfect.” He turns back, only vaguely aware he’s pulled free of Ed’s hold, causing the other man to drop his hands to his lap and clasp them together there. “Ed, thank you!”

Although he has every reason to be smug over this success, Ed’s answering smile is anything but. It is pure and bright and fills him fit to bursting, shining eyes basking in Oswald’s joy.

Oswald turns away to give the room another once over, just for the hell of it, then pauses to adjust the fit of the lens. He’ll need to experiment with it properly – learn the best and quickest way to fix it, tailor his wardrobe to match. For a second he almost jumps up to find a mirror. But no, it’s late, he’s tired and there’ll be plenty of time for all that tomorrow.

Still, he can at least get some sense of whether it suits him or not.

“How do I look?” he asks, lifting his chin and staring to the distance. Trying for a regal pose.

A moment of silence. Then –

“Beautiful.”

Ed doesn’t speak the word he breathes it, hushed and reverent like a prayer.

He sounds so enraptured, so awe-struck, Oswald is almost afraid to face him. Scared if he does he'll expose himself as the broken, ugly, savage monster he is and Ed will recoil, pale with horror and disbelief that he ever saw beauty in such a thing.

But, fortune favours the bold.

So he does turn.

And Ed doesn’t recoil.

Instead he draws a shaky breath as their eyes meet and the very air between them seems to tremble. The cold, electric shiver of standing at a precipice, ready to jump.

And this too is familiar. The sofa. The two of them leaning close. Oswald has been on this same edge of uncertainty with Ed before and it had been so much, so new, he'd shied away at the last minute – a chicken not a penguin.

Not this time.

This time he keeps going. Seeking in Ed's parted lips the abyss they can tumble down together.

This time it's Ed who holds back, jerking upright with sudden, frantic purpose.

“Bound together by common blood. Your father’s child, your mother’s son. What am I?”

The switch from languid to manic hits like whiplash and Oswald can only blink and frown.

“Um...” he starts, buying time while he considers the riddle. He knows from lots and lots and _lots_ of experience it's easier to answer than question when Ed fires them out like this. “A... a brother?”

A terse nod.

“Am I though?” Ed presses. “Really?”

“I don’t –” Oswald starts, before the meaning of this particular riddle and follow through dawns on him, those final hours after the battle for the city replaying. “Oh.” The face off in the library. Neither of them certain if they were friend or foe. Their future on a literal knife edge. _Please, we’re brothers_. “I didn’t mean –” Oswald half sighs, half growls. Ed has played so many games with his heart in the past, twisted him every which way, Oswald should be glad to have caused even an inkling of the same confusion in the man. But he finds no joy in Ed’s doubt now, just irritation. “I only said that because I didn’t think you wanted to be more.”

Another nod. Longer this time.

“No,” Ed murmurs and Oswald’s stomach drops away.

No Ed _doesn’t_ want to be more?

Has he read the evening all wrong? Is this just _another_ misunderstanding?

For god’s sake can’t Ed speak plainly _for once?_ Oswald’s heart can’t take much more of this toing and froing.

“I didn’t think so either,” Ed carries on and Oswald holds his breath, clinging to the past tense like his life depends on it. Because maybe it does.

And as he watches Ed’s whole demeanour starts to change, the mask of ‘cold logician’ he’s worked so hard on since becoming The Riddler melting away. Not by inches, not a temporary thaw quickly hardened again, like after the gunfight when he’d offered his heartfelt apology or the care and concern he’d shown when bandaging Oswald’s eye – no, this is all of Ed completely stripped bare. Raw and exposed. Like he used to be often, before the bullets and betrayal, before the fights and the threats and the docks.

“I was wrong,” Ed says.

It’s not the three words Oswald’s been hoping for, but they make him melt all the same. Because from the smartest man in Gotham it’s just as powerful a confession. If not more.

So Oswald is shocked but smiling when they come together, Ed’s more sombre lips caressing his own with a similar air of disbelief. Wanting, but hesitant. Almost chaste pecks that stop then start again as they test each other’s commitment.

It’s only when Ed surges forward, hands pressing hot and possessive either side of Oswald’s neck to deepen the kiss that Oswald truly grasps the reality of it all.

This is happening.

After all the stops and starts, the failures, the loss, the backstabbing and the sacrifice, here they are. Together at last.

It’s cost them _everything_.

But for this warmth, this touch, this perfect meeting of minds and hearts? Oswald wouldn’t change a second. Not for the world. Not even for Gotham.

His joy spills out of him – bleeding into shaking fingers and making them curl and clutch the fabric at Ed’s chest; bursting from his lips in needy whimpers; and of course, leaking, salty and wet from his eyes.

Though he tries to fight it the salt in his wound burns too deep, forcing him to break away with a hiss.

“Oswald? What is it?” Ed panics while Oswald removes the monocle and dabs his tender skin with the edge of his sleeve. “Is something wrong with your eye?”

Ed's hands flitter about with an uncharacteristic lack of intent, touching Oswald's shoulder, his arm, the side of his face. Charming, but ultimately so useless Oswald finds himself laughing through the pain.

“No,” he grins as he tucks the lens in his shirt pocket, blinking stinging tears down his cheeks. The rest of the world is a mismatched blur again, but what does he care for the rest of the world when Ed is so close? It couldn't possibly compare to the puckered pink of Ed's frown or the sharp, anxious flick of his lashes. “They’re both working perfectly, that's all,” Oswald adds.

But instead of reassuring, this deepens Ed's frown – angry black marring his brow, fierce red spotting his cheeks.

“I've made you cry so often,” he mutters. “This time was supposed to be different.”

His head starts to shake. Lip curling. Crinkles round his nose. A wretched blend of distaste and despair and Oswald doesn't need perfect vision to see the cogs turning. He knows how Ed will be picking this moment apart, guessing and second guessing, searching for hidden meaning.

If Oswald doesn't stop him the mad and marvellous maze of Ed's mind is going to lead them to an ending before they've even begun. This will be insurmountable, another fickle twist of fate, proving that love is still that impossible weakness Ed had once claimed it to be. Then Ed will stand and leave, maybe forever this time, and no, Oswald can't lose him, not now, not again, not like this.

He knows Ed. He's redirected the intricate flow of the man's thoughts before, he can do it again. He can do it now.

“It is! It is different!” he cries, lurching forward, grabbing at the flaps of Ed's jacket.

Ed stiffens, mask slotting back in place.

Too desperate, Oswald thinks. He needs to do better.

He lifts his hands away and tries a casual shrug. A self-depreciating smile.

“You didn’t do this.” Oswald wafts a hand at his tears. “I made myself cry.” And he knows then, with a certainty bordering on prophetic, how to play this back to advantage. The knowledge filling him with the same calm that guided him to the library that night he’d convinced Ed to leave the city, _knowing_ the outcome was a foregone conclusion. “This time,” he says, meeting Ed’s shuttered gaze without fear. “You’re supposed to make me stop.”

Not a request. A statement. A fact.

A truth Ed is powerless to resist.

Ed stares a moment, nostrils flaring as he considers. Then he lifts a hand and smears away a tear track from Oswald’s cheek with his thumb, rubbing soft circles there until all trace of moisture is gone, at which point he nods and breathes out a smile.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Of course.”

When he lifts his other arm Oswald thinks Ed means to repeat the move, but instead he takes Oswald’s face in both hands and leans forward to press a gentle kiss below his wounded eye, licking at the salted droplets there with his tongue. It’s so soft and unexpected that more tears well up and squeeze free while Ed works, despite how much Oswald tries to rein them in. But it seems Oswald’s ploy is effective because Ed is no longer deterred. He simply kisses again and again, switching sides when necessary and catching any drops that escape his lips with warm and ready fingertips until Oswald is clean and dry.

Then Ed moves lower, kissing the bitter taste of Oswald’s pain into his open mouth where each of them swallow it down, washing away the remainder bit by bit so only the sweet caress of lips and tongue and mingled breath remains.

It’s like a dream. A fabled happy ending.

And as such it doesn’t even cross Oswald’s mind to try for more. He’s content to curl into Ed’s embrace, pressing close as they kiss, hands flat against Ed’s chest.

But Ed grows restless and his circling arms begin to roam. They slide to the small of Oswald’s back and drag him closer still, one hand dipping under Oswald’s jacket, fingers finding skin through the space between buttons on his shirt, the ball of his palm rubbing over Oswald’s belt and onto softer places below.

Oswald breaks free – or as close as Ed’s hold will allow – with a gasp.

“Sorry,” Ed breathes in his ear. “Sorry. I should stop.” He starts to untangle himself, but slow, every touch lingering. “I know you have no interest in that kind of thing,” he adds as he, finally, relinquishes Oswald and scoots back along the sofa with a satisfied sigh.

The comment is so casual, so matter-of-fact, Oswald doesn’t know how to process it. Should he be angry? Offended? Defensive?

“Wha –?” he tries, ending up giving his natural reaction. Namely, surprise. “What makes you say that?”

“Hmmm?” Ed glances up from where he’s been smoothing the line of his jacket. “Oh, well, I mean it’s obvious,” he shrugs. “In all our time together you’ve never so much as looked at another man, or woman, with desire. Even your feelings for me have only ever been romantic in nature. And you told me yourself the only times you’ve ever been angry with your mother were over imagined sexual liaisons she used to criticise you for engaging in. Conclusion –” He points a finger to the ceiling. “You have no interest in carnal relations.” He folds his hand back, palm up. A non-verbal ‘ta da!’ “It’s not exactly a riddle.”

The longer Ed goes on the deeper Oswald feels himself blushing. Frank and open discussion of murder, torture and mutilation he is more than familiar with, but he’s had little occasion to dwell on this particular topic and certainly never spoken about it as bluntly as this.    

“Yes… well… that…” he stammers. “That may be true,” he concedes, earning a smug nod from Ed in return. “But –”

He flounders, at a loss how to continue. This is a hurdle he hadn’t anticipated and Oswald curses himself for not factoring sex into his future with Ed sooner. Ed hasn’t left yet, so Oswald’s inclinations, or lack of them, are clearly not an immediate deal-breaker, but sex _is expected_ in a romantic relationship, isn’t it? And by all accounts Ed has been enthusiastically amorous with his previous partners, so he’s sure to have particular needs in that regard. If he thinks Oswald can’t meet them then…

A fresh wave if panic surges up Oswald’s throat. He can’t lose Ed now. He can’t. He _can’t_.

He’ll just have to convince him stay again, like before. Whatever it takes.

“But that is… circumstantial evidence at best!” he argues. “It doesn’t mean I… that I _wouldn’t_ be interested in… you know –” He looks away, too embarrassed to meet Ed’s eye as he nods downwards. “ _That._ ”

“Huh.” When Oswald dares to glance back Ed has a curled finger to his lips, eyes distant. “A logical counterpoint.” He focuses back to Oswald. “Are you saying you are interested?”

“I… yes?”

Ed looks at him sideways, dubious, and Oswald knows better than to try and maintain a failed lie.

“No,” he tries again, but shakes his head after because that isn’t right either. “I don’t – to be honest, I’ve never given it much thought,” he admits.

“A fact that in itself implies a disinclination,” Ed notes.

“Perhaps,” Oswald concedes, moving on to a new tactic. “But, even so, I mean… I _could_ … if you wanted…”

He has, after all, done it before. Becoming umbrella boy to Fish Mooney and the long road that followed had not been easy and Oswald had taken any and every opportunity he could to get ahead, even when the taking had proven all too literal.

Not that he plans to reveal that of course, better if Ed thinks he’s the only –

“That won’t be necessary,” Ed tells him, interrupting Oswald’s thoughts and spiralling his panic into a crescendo. He can’t have come this far only to lose it all now! Except, no, Ed is continuing. “A sexual component is hardly a prerequisite for a romance. I’m sure we’ll find plenty of other ways to make this a fulfilling partnership.”

Ed grins, a teasing sparkle in his eyes full of glee and promise and _future_ and Oswald is – just –

Speechless.

This – wasn’t an issue at all? He gets to keep Ed, even if they _never_ have sex?

It seems too good to be true.

His slack-jawed silence must have gone on too long because Ed’s brow is starting to furrow.

“What’s wrong?”

Oswald shakes his head, astonished, because the question is genuine. Because Ed’s previous comment was genuine.

“You realise,” he starts, somehow finding his voice. “That most people would not dismiss that… _component_ … of a relationship so easily.”

The look Ed gives him then is so far beyond understanding. It’s affinity so deep it’s like falling through a mirror. The same bone-weary ache of a lifetime of never meeting expectations, of living in a world that never let them belong, of never quite being able to _fit_.

“We’re not most people, Oswald,” Ed tells him, a fire growing in his eyes just like that night after the battle. A rousing light that ignited new hope in Oswald when it seemed all was lost and he can already feel it doing so again. “What the rest of the world, the rest of the pathetic populous of this city thinks – it doesn’t matter. It’s _nothing_.” He cuts a hand through the air. “They can keep their tediously happy homes. And their picket fences. And their two point four kids. And all the other mind-numbing rules and conventions that govern their sad, _ordinary_ lives.” He points a finger from Oswald to himself. “You and me? We’re more than that.” As he continues he twists his finger down and jabs it in time with his words. “We have _always_ been _more than that_.” He pauses to take a breath, fingers curling into his palm, eyes holding Oswald’s with hypnotic power. “So don’t let any of them make you believe, not for one second, that you are anything less than you are!”

Ed is almost panting when he’s done and Oswald feels just as breathless. Ed’s words seem to reach to his very core, to his soul. A guiding light. A liberation. Yes! To hell with the world that wouldn’t have them. They have found a new world in each other and god help all those who cast them out because together they’re going to make each and every last one of them pay.  

Made bold by the speech Oswald lets his adrenaline carry him forward to capture Ed’s lips in a fresh and bruising kiss.

Caught unawares Ed fails to kiss back before Oswald pulls away, though the way he trails after Oswald’s absent mouth suggests he was about to.

“You’re right,” Oswald says. “I have no interest in… that kind of thing. And it doesn’t matter.” He shuffles closer and Ed watches with rapt attention as Oswald slides both hands round the buckle of his belt. “But still. I’d like to try it.” When he blinks up at Ed from beneath his lashes he catches the inky black swirl of the other man’s pupils as they grow. “Properly. At least once,” Oswald adds. “With you.” He squeezes the black leather and fabric with his fingers. “Only you.”

Ed’s smile stretches back, exposing his teeth.

“Are you sure?” His voice is a growl, hands gripping tight round Oswald’s wrists, nails biting down when Oswald nods. “I can’t promise I’ll be gentle.”

Oswald bares his own teeth in return.

“I’m not asking you to.”

 

* * *

 

When it’s over, the mess cleaned away and both of them shaky and spent, Ed lazes back against the sofa with Oswald sprawled across, head in Ed’s lap.

Oswald rubs the red marks at his wrists made by Ed’s tie and smiles, rolling his shoulders as he shifts to a more comfortable position. The experience was all a bit more, energetic than he’s used to. But it has left him remarkably relaxed, he’ll give it that. And looking up at a dishevelled Ed, stripped to black and green shirtsleeves and made equally pliant by Oswald’s attentions is an undeniable boon.

The lack of focus is unsatisfying though, so Oswald pats at his own crumpled shirt, jacket discarded with Ed’s somewhere unknown, and retrieves the monocle. It takes him a few tries to fix it and by the time he has Ed is smiling down at him, obscuring some of the bruising marks bitten round his neck Oswald was hoping to admire. Never mind. There’ll be time later.

As Oswald blinks, acclimatising to the magnification, Ed threads a hand into Oswald’s hair and gives a low chuckle.

“What?” Oswald asks. “Did I put it on wrong?”

He lifts a hand, thinking to adjust the lens, but Ed intercepts it, curling Oswald’s fingers loosely with his own and holding the hand to his chest.

“No,” Ed answers and his voice is syrupy smooth, calmer than Oswald has ever known him. “You just look… terrifically decadent.” The fingers in Oswald’s hair start to stroke, clearing away sweaty tangles and massaging Oswald’s skin. “Laid out here like this, with the monocle. Lord of the manor. You just need a cigarette to complete the look.”

Now Oswald is chuckling.

“Please. I haven’t smoked a day in my life. My mother used to say only foolish, common people stained their fingers with cigarettes.”

“Well,” Ed concedes, still stroking. “You are neither of those things.”

Oswald accepts the compliment with a distracted smile, almost forgotten memories resurfacing.

“She used to have a… a…” His drowsy mind struggles with the word so he tries to pantomime it, holding up two fingers to his lips and moving them a handspan away.

“A cigarette holder?” Ed surmises, sharp as ever despite recent indulgences.

“Yes!” Oswald lets his hand drop to his chest, smile growing softer. “She never used it. I think she just kept it to be fashionable. Or perhaps, as a keepsake…” From his father? Oswald had never thought to ask. He likes the idea that Elijah gifted it to her, as part of their courtship maybe. “She used to take it out sometimes, in the evening. She’d put on a record and dance with me in the kitchen… She looked so beautiful. Like a movie star.”

His voice wavers. It’s been years now, but he still aches from her loss.

Ed lifts Oswald’s hand, pressing the knuckles to his lips in silence and Oswald is grateful for the respite offered by the gesture. A comfort that both distracts and allows him space to grieve. Ed had been the first person there for him in the aftermath of his mother’s untimely demise of course and remains the only one to ever offer him genuine, substantial support, somehow always able to provide exactly what Oswald needs to cope – be it harsh words to clear Oswald’s mind and teach him to find strength in the pain; warm reassurance of his mother’s pride; the melodic refrain of a childhood lullaby or now this.

A notable contrast, it occurs to Oswald, to how willing Ed had been to use Elijah against him. With enough time gone to allow a more critical view of the torture, Oswald wonders if there was a reason for that, for why Ed had been so willing to desecrate a father but less so a mother. Another mystery. Every time he thinks he has the man figured out he discovers a new riddle. 

“You’d look wonderful with a cigarette holder,” Ed says after a beat, pausing his strokes to give Oswald a speculative once over.

Sufficiently recovered from his nostalgic lapse, Oswald glances up at Ed and scoffs.

“No really,” Ed insists, thoughtful gaze moving up, hand smoothing back errant wisps of hair from Oswald’s forehead. “And a maybe a top hat.”

Oswald laughs.

“A monocle, a cigarette holder _and_ a top hat?” He shakes his head. “I’d look ridiculous.”

“No,” Ed says. He looks up a second then, eyes trailing to the doorway, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Oswald turns to look as well but the arch is empty. “You’d look amazing,” Ed goes on, Oswald’s newly improved vision giving him a clear view of the way Ed’s pupils expand as his gaze returns. The flare of his nostrils. The bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

So this is what it’s like, to be looked on with desire.

Oswald had no idea how _powerful_ such a thing made you feel.

“And if anyone told you otherwise,” Ed adds. “I’d rip out their tongue and make them eat it. Heh heh!”

The chasm of Ed’s mouth opens wide as he laughs and Oswald feels Ed shake beneath him with glee – a thrilling committal to the promise. And another return. A callback to another promise he’d made here once, all those lifetimes ago.

_I hope you know, Oswald. I would do anything for you._

Somewhere behind them a newly wound clock begins to strike, as if in celebration. Counting down the hours all the way to midnight. Fairy tale perfect. The end of one cycle and the start of another.

Ed glances round at the chime, peering into the gloom.

“It’s late,” he notes. “I should probably get going.”

He lowers Oswald’s hand but makes no move to untangle their fingers, letting both their arms rest heavy and warm over Oswald’s chest.

“Back to work on your new secret headquarters?” Oswald queries, pressing when Ed nods – “You’re still not going to tell me where it is?”

The roll of Ed’s eyes is beautifully tempered by the fond curve at the edge of his lips.

“You do understand what ‘secret’ means?”

“Hmmm,” Oswald hums back round a similar smile. When Ed first told him he was building a new base of operations – after the library was reclaimed by city authorities – Oswald had been sadden by the news. After their pact and the gusto with which Ed had joined him in restoring the Manor he’d assumed Ed planned to move back in with him once renovations were complete. But after tonight it hardly seems to matter. If Ed needs his own space so be it. Grenades, freeze rays, bullets and even death have failed to sever their bond. A little distance is no threat. “Seems a shame though,” he muses, part teasing, part tactical. “After we’ve just christened my home, not to do the same for yours.”

Ed narrows his eyes, glaring down the edge of his glasses. He’s identified the ploy. Oswald appealing to his sense of order. Implying an uneven equation. Making Ed feel he _has_ to reveal his hideout’s location, so Oswald can come over and restore the balance.

“You’d want that?” Ed asks and Oswald’s heart swells at the question.

Because Ed must realise by now he can take what he wants when it comes to this, that Oswald wouldn’t resist, no matter how dark or twisted Ed’s desire. But no, he respects enough, _cares_ enough, to ask.

Oswald doesn’t answer ‘no’ – although he’s certain he _could_ – but doesn’t offer an enthused ‘yes’ either. He dares to be honest again, folding down his lips and lifting his shoulders.

Maybe.

Maybe. He doesn’t know yet.

Ed strokes his thumb across Oswald’s knuckles, nodding.

“Perhaps I could take you,” he relents. “When it’s complete.” He twists his lips, pondering. “If you wore a blindfold…” A loophole. Nefarious. Oswald can work with that. “But you’re wrong to call it my home,” Ed goes on. “It’s not a home, it’s a _headquarters_. A workplace. It’s my workshop. My studio.” He pauses, a wide, euphoric grin snaking across his face. “My green room,” he finishes, chuckling.

Oh. But, if it’s not to be his home –

“Then, where are you planning to live?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ed shrugs. “Here and there. Wherever I find myself. Wherever our schemes take me.”

The ‘our’ in that sentence is a thing of beauty, but Oswald is still hung up on other details.

“That sounds… uncomfortable,” he comments.

Another shrug.

“The path to greatness requires sacrifice. You know that better than anyone.”

“True enough,” Oswald admits. “But… I have sacrificed enough creature comforts for one lifetime. I have no intention of doing so again if I can help it.”

Ed strokes the back of his fingers down Oswald’s cheek.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says. Soft, but with conviction. “You were born to be a king, Oswald. With all the trappings.” He draws his hand away to arc it through the air, but the warmth of his gaze more than makes up for the loss. “Servants. Silken sheets. Four course meals. Everything. You deserve it. This is your city and you should have it all.” Yes, Oswald thinks. Yes. After all his sacrifice, everything he’s suffered, the blood he’s shed, hasn’t he more than earned his right to this city? “But I’m not you,” Ed continues, curling his fingers beneath his chin. “I’m no ruler. I don’t need a throne. The Riddler belongs in a different spotlight. One that shines from everywhere and nowhere.” He splays his fingers, eyes gleaming. “Always where you least expect. Unknowable. Untraceable. Unstoppable.” His hand folds into a fist, excitement peaking, and he holds there a moment, Oswald tensing alongside him. Then the moment passes and they both relax with a sigh, Ed’s hand dropping to Oswald’s shoulder. “No. The Riddler doesn’t have a home,” Ed concludes.

But while the rest of Ed’s speech may have won Oswald over, this last part he cannot sanction.

“Yes you do,” he says. Gentle but firm, free hand joining the ones entwined across his chest and grasping Ed’s tight. “You always will,” he insists, gaze as resolute as his fingers and gripping Ed just as strong. “Whenever you need one.”

When Ed stills at the words, eyes darting away, Oswald fears he’s spoken out of turn. A dismissal leaps to the tip of his tongue, an apology already half-formed, until Ed’s hold about him tightens and eases him back into silence. A long, heartfelt silence full of everything Oswald realises Ed simply _cannot_ give voice to, the words lost to deep swallows and frantic blinking.

So they just hold each other and listen to the crackle of the fire and for the first time in as long as Oswald can remember, he feels at peace.

He feels _safe._

Ed doesn’t talk of leaving again and Oswald doesn’t push him to stay. Because those are just details. Oswald sees that now. Paltry and irrelevant. They can be here, together, on this sofa, or flung to far corners with a thousand miles between them and it would make no difference.

Because now they’ve found each other – really, truly, finally, _finally_ found each other – Oswald knows with complete certainty that nothing and no one can possibly break them apart. Not again.

Not ever again.


End file.
